Page 31 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty-One

D arkness. And heat.

His throat was a ragged thing, scratched dry, his skin too tight across his bones. Something crusted at the corners of his eyes. He turned his head—no, tried to—and the world spun sideways.

The ceiling was there. That blasted cobweb in the corner he had always meant to clean. It stared back. Mocking him.

He was cold. Or hot. His hands trembled as he groped for something—cloth? The pitcher? Had he left it full?

Fingers found the tin cup, and he lifted it with a shaking arm, sloshed lukewarm water over his chin. Enough got in his mouth to swallow. He coughed, gagged, drank again. He would live another hour. Perhaps.

Blankets twisted around his legs like vines. He kicked. Or thought he did. Everything was so heavy.

Elizabeth.

The name pulled him under again.

They were running. Always running. Her hand in his. He could feel it—warm, firm, trembling. She was behind him, her skirts catching on branches, and he turned, lifted her over the fence, pressed a kiss to her temple before she could even speak.

Safe. Just keep going.

He mumbled her name. Again. Again.

Then cold. The floor. Hard beneath his cheek. Had he fallen? No—he was lying down. He must have made it to the couch. Or the bed. He tasted blood. No—iron. Water staled from the kettle, from the tin. It always tasted like that.

He curled tighter, groaning.

The corner of the room swam with shadows.

She was there. No, she—she had been. He had kissed her. Her lips were real.

And then he had walked away.

Fool. Heaven above, what a fool.

The room flickered. Light. Day. Then dark again.

Something in his stomach shifted. Hunger? He could not remember eating. He forced himself upright, staggered to a pantry. A door. There—hardtack, dry and stale—some haversack left by Richard. He chewed. Gagged. Swallowed. The corner of the counter bit into his hip.

Back to bed. Cold floor again.

He closed his eyes, and she was there. Always. Gold gown. Laughter. Blood on her hands. His hands. Crawling under the floor, the weight of her body shielding his. Her voice at his ear, whispering his name—“Fitzwilliam.”

Was she real?

He did not know.

Time lost all shape.

Sometimes the door rattled in his dreams. Sometimes the wind screamed her name.

And still, he burned. Was that his heart, or just his shoulder?

Water. He needed—

No. Already drank it. Or spilled it. Or both. Was there more? He could not remember.

The tin cup was on the floor again. Or still. It clanged once, softly. That had happened before.

He groaned—soft, ragged—and rolled, or tried to. The blanket tangled again around his knees. No. Not a blanket. His coat. He had been wearing it and now he was not and now it was a pillow and none of it made any sense.

It was so cold. Except when it was hot. Everything was burning.

Elizabeth.

His mouth formed the shape of her name, but no sound came out. He thought he had spoken it aloud. Maybe he had. Maybe that was what brought her. She always came when he called. Or maybe he dreamed her—he did not know the difference anymore.

Sometimes she stood in the corner and watched him. Sometimes she came close. Whispered to him. Touched his hair.

He told her to leave. She never listened. He told her he was dangerous. She laughed. He told her he would die soon, and she pressed her lips to his and told him not yet.

Other times it was not her. Other times it was fire and pain and the sharp snap of gunfire in the dark. Sometimes he was crawling, sometimes he was running. Once he reached for her hand and found blood instead. His or hers—he could not say.

He remembered trees. Wind. Her breath in his ear. He remembered hiding. Holding her. Fighting for her. He remembered dying.

Maybe he had.

And then—

A sound.

Not in his head. Not this time.

Footsteps. Real. Heavy. Sharp-heeled boots on floorboards. Not hers. Too loud. Too certain.

The door slammed open. He flinched—tried to sit up—and the world reeled sideways.

A voice, harsh and distant and terribly familiar. “Bloody hell.”

Darcy blinked. The light behind the man was too bright. It cut around his silhouette like a halo. Or maybe a noose.

More footsteps. Another voice. “Get the surgeon. And water—clean towels. Christ, Darcy, what the devil—”

Fitzwilliam?

No.

Yes.

Could not be. Richard was away. Chasing traitors.

The floor tilted again. A hand grabbed his shoulder. He shouted—tried to shout—maybe it was just a moan. Too much pain. Too much.

“Easy, cousin,” the voice said. “Easy now. You are safe.”

Safe.

He almost laughed.

Then another voice. Lower. Older. “This wound is badly infected. We must clean it immediately—I cannot believe it is not yet gangrene. Another day, and we would have lost him.”

Hands. Too many hands. Lifting him. Cutting something—his shirt, he thought. He did not care. His skin peeled like paper and someone poured acid into the wound and he screamed.

Someone held him down. “Drink this. Darcy. Drink, damn you!”

Bitter. Sharp. The taste hit the back of his throat and he gagged, but it kept coming. Warm liquid. Too warm. He coughed. Then again. Then he drank.

Cool cloth on his face.

Bandages.

A voice—Fitzwilliam’s voice again, lower now, close to his ear.

“You stupid bastard,” the colonel said. “Why did you not send word? Why the hell did you not let someone know?”

Darcy tried to reply. Could not.

Fingers gripped his wrist. “You are going to live. Do you hear me? You will live.”

He wanted to say he was not sure he wanted to.

But the voice was stubborn. The pressure on his arm strong. And Elizabeth’s face was still in his mind—soft, smiling, fierce—and when sleep took him again, she was all he saw.

And this time, she did not leave.

June 10, 1812

T he drawing room at Wrexham House was a perfect, curated display of taste—high ceilings trimmed with plasterwork, a great floral arrangement crowning the center table, and a distant fire murmuring softly beneath the clink of teaspoons and the rustle of skirts. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, filtered by lace curtains so fine they seemed woven from mist. A footman had just departed with the silver tea tray when Lady Charlotte Wrexham gave an elegant stretch across her chaise longue and smiled wickedly.

“You cannot simply sit there and tell us nothing, Elizabeth,” she said, a sparkle in her eye. “Everyone says Her Majesty summoned you to Frogmore. What was it like? What did she wear? What did she say? And—most importantly—was it terrifying?”

Elizabeth, seated upright on a velvet-backed chair with a cup of lemon-scented tea cradled between her fingers, smiled faintly. The porcelain was warm. Her fingertips, cold. Even inside her long gloves. “It was... a great honor,” she said, the words tasting foreign. “And yes. A little terrifying.”

The Duchess of Wrexham, who sat like a throned oracle near the fire, lifted her chin at that. “You were summoned by the Queen herself, my dear. One does not receive such an invitation without reason.”

Elizabeth’s mouth was dry. She took a sip to mask the ache rising in her throat. “Her Majesty was very kind.”

“Kind?” Charlotte tilted her head. “Gracious heavens. That makes her sound like a benevolent aunt in the country, not the sovereign matriarch of the realm. Was there no scandal? No secret assignation with a foreign prince in exile? I expected far more intrigue.”

“I doubt her household would permit such license,” Elizabeth said mildly, setting her cup down with care. “And if they did, I assure you I would be the last to hear of it.”

“Do not be coy,” the Duchess interjected, her tone smoother than Charlotte’s, but far more dangerous. “We heard the Queen sent for you after the Perceval affair. Your account must have impressed her. Or terrified her. Either will do.”

Elizabeth lifted her eyes, meeting the duchess’s gaze. “I only told her what I saw. Nothing more.”

“A great deal more, I think,” the Duchess replied, watching her over the rim of her teacup. “There were many who witnessed Perceval’s death. None of them were summoned.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to shift in her seat. “Perhaps it was a kindness, then. A balm for a distressed young lady.”

Charlotte gave a theatrical sigh. “If only all our nervous turns could win us a few weeks in the Queen’s favor. I shall develop a tremor and see where it gets me.”

“You shall not,” her mother said crisply.

“I shall not,” Charlotte echoed, with a wry giggle. She turned back to Elizabeth, eyes narrowing with gleeful suspicion. “Now—what about gentlemen? I know you will claim your time was occupied with noble purpose, but I am not so easily misled. Was Lord Pembroke there? He is always lurking about in royal households. Did he spill wine on your hem and beg your forgiveness?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. “Lord Pembroke was not in attendance.”

Charlotte’s pout was immediate and dramatic. “Pity. I was hoping he had finally grown bold enough to propose.”

“I do not believe he ever showed particular interest,” Elizabeth murmured.

“Not in you , perhaps. But your dowry inspires courage in the faintest of hearts,“ Charlotte replied with a wink. “Did Lord Westing reappear? I know he danced with you at Lady Ravenshaw’s ball and was positively luminous with hope. Or perhaps that odd little Viscount Stanhope? He still wears his collar three inches too high, but Mama says his estate in Kent is quite tolerable.”

Elizabeth summoned a practiced laugh. “I was not paying much attention.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “That is a suspicious answer. You only say that when something interesting happened.”

“Charlotte,” the duchess said mildly, though she did not sound disapproving. “Let the girl alone. She has just returned from royal service, not a Bath cotillion.”

But Charlotte only grinned. “I shall extract the truth eventually. Mark me.”

The Duchess gave a soft, audible breath through her nose—her version of indulgent disapproval. “My dear Charlotte, perhaps your friend is simply not inclined to broadcast her affections.”

“Or,” Charlotte said, leaning forward with a grin, “she is concealing the fact that she fell madly in love with a stable boy and eloped to Dorset in secret.”

Elizabeth smiled again, but this time, it felt fragile. “I fear I have disappointed you. There were no elopements. No proposals. No stable boys.”

“Nothing?” Charlotte groaned. “Then I shall simply have to live vicariously through someone else. Mr. Audley, perhaps. Have you heard him lately? They say he has been carrying on at White’s about secret shooters and government cover-ups. He has the look of a man quite determined to write a gothic novel, only without the talent.”

Elizabeth’s spine tensed. Her fingers found the edge of her saucer and gripped it lightly.

“Ah! There, I knew that name would provoke some sort of reaction. I believe you found him rather more than agreeable once, did you not, Elizabeth?”

“To be quite frank, I have many other things in my mind that seem far more important than one Henry Audley,” Elizabeth replied.

“Just as well,” Charlotte continued, “for I think he has gone dotty in the head. I sat next to him at Lady Matlock’s dinner party last week and he nearly overturned the soup insisting there was more to Perceval’s death than met the eye. I said, ‘Well of course there was, Audley. There were pistols and bullets and probably a very cross debtor involved. What more do you require? A ghost?’”

The Duchess snorted—very nearly a laugh. “The man is a gossip in trousers. He ought to take up a hobby.”

Elizabeth summoned her voice. “Perhaps he merely wishes for answers.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he wishes for an excuse to be quoted in the papers. In any case, it is nonsense. Everyone agrees there was no grand conspiracy. Just an angry man and a pistol.”

“Two,” the duchess corrected, “if one listens to our dear Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Oh, I think there was nothing in it, Your Grace. Her Majesty spoke to me more at Frogmore and now I understand it was merely a… a constable in plain clothes, who thought he could stop the shooter and was too late.”

Charlotte sighed. “Such a shame, really. It makes for a dreadfully dull story.”

Elizabeth’s mouth tasted of ashes. “Indeed. Dreadfully dull.”

The conversation spun on, touching on a new dressmaker in Grosvenor Street and Lady Celeste’s engagement to a man old enough to be her grandfather, but Elizabeth drifted from it. She smiled when expected. She laughed once or twice. But her thoughts had already left the room.

And by the time the visit concluded, she had made up her mind to write to Jane. There were too many things she could not say to anyone else.

Montclair House London June 11, 1812 My Dearest Jane, How strange it feels to write to you from the silence of my father’s house rather than the warmth of yours. And how much stranger still to call it yours, when to me, it feels like mine. I hope you will forgive my clumsy pen—there is so much I wish to say, and not nearly enough elegance in my fingers to say it. How are you, dearest? Truly? I think of you more often than I can say and send a little prayer each evening that you are safe, content, and well loved. Has Mr. Bingley continued to make his admiration plain? I shall be quite cross with him if he has not. And you must not be too discreet, either—do let him see your heart. He is not the only one whose affections ought to be assured. Give my regards to your father, and tell him I am quite certain I should have beat him in chess by now, were I allowed to remain at Longbourn. I do hope he has found a worthy opponent—Mr. Bingley is too easily distracted by your beautiful eyes, I imagine, and not nearly ruthless enough to be entertaining. Are Kitty and Lydia well? I imagine Lydia has already appropriated your best bonnet and Kitty has feigned ignorance. Please tell them I expect no fewer than three proper curtsies when next we meet. If they will not learn them for Society, then let them learn them for me. Enclosed you will find the new sheet music I mentioned for Mary—I have marked the passages I think she will most enjoy. And a lace handkerchief for your mother, which I believe would suit her best with that lilac gown she wore the day I arrived. As for me… London is as it has always been. Grand. Glittering. And yet entirely hollow. I walk through it as though through a dream, half-listening, half-seeing. The season is in full swing, but I confess, I feel no inclination to dance. Jane… I have not heard from Mr. Darcy. Not since we were separated. He was terribly wounded when we parted, and I desperately hoped to find out if he is well. I do not even know where he resides, or whether he is in town. There is no address, no calling card, no plausible reason for me to inquire after him. But if you happen to see Mr. Bingley, perhaps you might mention his friend in passing. I would not ask you to be too forward. Only… if you should hear anything—anything at all—please write and tell me. I miss him. And I miss you. More than I have words for. I hope soon I might concoct some reason compelling enough to satisfy my father and return to Hertfordshire, if only for a visit. Until then, write to me, Jane. Often. Tell me every dull, delightful, maddening detail of your days. I shall devour them like sugar. With all my heart, Elizabeth

June 21, 1812

Darcy adjusted his cravat with care, his fingers lingering on the folds longer than necessary. The familiar weight of the fabric against his throat was both a comfort and a reminder—he was returning to the world of the living, to duty, after weeks lost to fever and pain. His shoulder throbbed beneath the layers of his coat, a dull ache that still pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

As he stepped into the Home Office, the murmur of clerks and rustle of papers greeted him, a symphony of bureaucracy that had once been his daily score. He nodded to a passing colleague, the man’s eyes widening momentarily before he offered a hasty greeting. Darcy was accustomed to such reactions; his unexpected return from the brink had evidently sparked whispers.

Darcy sank stiffly into the chair at his desk, the leather unforgiving against the bruised edge of his spine. His shoulder ached—throbbed, really—and every reach across the blotter sent sharp warnings down his back. But he ignored them. He had come here to work. To reacquaint himself with order, with focus, with purpose.

Maddox was dead. Cunningham “sailed to Antigua” under odd circumstances. And there was a new prime minister, Lord Liverpool, who was both loyal to the monarchy and fairly capable—after all, Darcy had served under him when he was the Home Secretary. The world was coming back to order.

And now, for his little corner of it, it was time to do his bit. He pulled the first folder from the stack, squinting at the dull gray print of a coded report. “Nothing but grain tariffs,” he muttered, flipping the page. “Fascinating.”

A second folder yielded a half-written memorandum on port authority corruption. Another listed suspected tea smugglers along the Channel. Darcy skimmed them all with increasing impatience, stacking the irrelevant reports to one side and muttering under his breath about the state of filing systems at the Home Office.

Then something slipped from the pile.

He reached absently to catch it, grimacing as the motion tugged too hard on his bandaged shoulder. A folded broadsheet fanned across his desk, one of a dozen he had agreed to receive while recovering—meant to keep him informed, he reminded himself, though he had barely glanced at a single one.

“Must have delivered these yesterday,” he murmured, trying not to sound as disgruntled as he felt. He reached for it, intending to set it aside.

But a bold headline stopped his hand. “The Marquess of Ashwick and his daughter, Lady Elizabeth Montclair, Attend the Theatre with Prince Nikolaos of Württemberg.”

The room tipped sideways. The engraving beneath the headline depicted a familiar scene: Elizabeth, radiant in an elegant gown, seated beside her father in a private box. Opposite them, a distinguished gentleman—presumably Prince Nikolaos—leaned in, his posture attentive, his gaze fixed upon her.

Darcy’s fingers tightened around the broadsheet, the sharp edges cutting into his skin. He scrutinized the illustration, searching for nuances, for truths hidden within the artist’s strokes. Elizabeth’s face was turned slightly away from the prince, her attention seemingly directed toward the stage. Was it mere coincidence, or had the artist captured a deliberate moment of detachment? The prince’s demeanor, however, was unmistakable—his body angled toward her, his expression one of admiration and intent.

He told himself it was only a drawing, a subjective interpretation, perhaps even an exaggeration meant to tantalize society’s gossipmongers. Yet, the knot in his stomach tightened.

He forced his gaze to the dateline: yesterday. The ink was barely dry on the news of her public appearance with another man. A prince, no less. The article elaborated on the prince’s visit to London, noting his rumored search for a suitable English bride to strengthen ties between Württemberg and Britain.

The room seemed to constrict around him, the ambient sounds fading into a distant hum. He became acutely aware of the rhythmic throb in his shoulder, each pulse echoing the turmoil within. The logical part of his mind chastised his reaction—Elizabeth was free to attend the theatre with whomever she pleased. It was not as if he could escort her, and he would not deny her the pleasure of social engagements. Yet, the image of her in the company of another man—a prince, of all things—gnawed at him with relentless ferocity.

His vision blurred as he stared unseeingly at the broadsheet, the words and images dissolving into meaningless smudges. A tremor coursed through his hand, and the paper slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the floor. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if to block out the tormenting thoughts that assailed him.

The walls of the office, once a sanctuary of order and purpose, now felt like the confines of a prison cell. The weight of solitude, of weeks spent in isolation with only the company of a doctor, his cousin, and his own despair, bore down upon him with crushing intensity. He had believed that immersing himself in work would provide an escape, a reprieve from the memories that haunted him. But reality had a cruel way of intruding upon such illusions.

A ragged breath escaped his lips, and before he could steel himself against it, a sob broke free—a raw, guttural sound that seemed to reverberate through the empty room. He doubled over, elbows braced against the desk, as the floodgates opened and the tears he had so steadfastly withheld streamed down his face.

The image of Elizabeth’s smile, the lilt of her laughter, the warmth of her touch—all surged forth with vivid clarity, each recollection a dagger to his heart. He had convinced himself that distance and time would dull the ache, that he could will himself to forget. But the heart was not so easily swayed by reason.

Minutes passed, or perhaps it was hours; time had lost its meaning. What was he to do? What could he do? One day, she would marry. Some lucky bastard with more money and titles than comprehension that his real treasure was the woman taking his name. It would be in all the broadsheets, and there would be no avoiding it for him. The only way to escape it was not to know of it, and the only way to do that…

He straightened, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with a trembling hand. The broadsheet lay crumpled on the floor, and he left it there.

Drawing a shuddering breath, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, the familiar act of writing offering a semblance of control. With deliberate strokes, he began to pen a letter, each word solidifying his resolve to seek solace in duty, if not in love. To the Right Honourable Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, I trust this letter finds you well. In light of recent developments and my unwavering commitment to serve His Majesty’s government, I respectfully request consideration for an overseas assignment where my skills might be most effectively employed. Portugal, given its current strategic importance, appears a suitable station, though I remain amenable to deployment wherever the need is greatest. I await your esteemed consideration. Yours faithfully, Fitzwilliam Darcy

He sanded the letter, watching as the ink set into the fibers. Folding it slowly, he pressed it with the seal of his office. Summoning a passing clerk, he extended the missive.

“Ensure this reaches the Foreign Secretary’s office without delay.”